


the place we used to love

by coshie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, aziraphale is lonely, but has healthier coping mechanisms, crowley is self-destructive, fight and separation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 13:44:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20426951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coshie/pseuds/coshie
Summary: Aziraphale didn't know why he said it.  But it was too late, and Crowley was out the door.Twenty years might not be a lot when compared to six thousand, but these twenty years might be the hardest for them both.





	1. crowley

**Author's Note:**

> prompt from tumblr: fight & separation followed by decades of Crowley engaging in self destructive behavior and decades of intense loneliness and longing on the angel’s part; angsty angst being angstified  
so. you know what you're getting into.
> 
> \--
> 
> _is this the place we used to love?_  
_is this the place that i've been dreaming of?_  
\-- "somewhere only we know", keane

There was a drink in one hand, and something very hot in his other. Crowley blinked, and realized that his cigarette had burned down to his fingers and was dutifully trying to turn those to ash as well. He smothered it in the ashtray - well, near the ashtray at least - and drained the drink. It was refilled a moment later by the attentive bartender.

“Didn’t even - ” he hiccuped slightly, “ - even matter, ‘n th’ end.” He waved his drink around. “S’not nonsense, I told 'im. Is, he said. ‘nd so I left, walked out.” Another hiccup, and he took a swig before he could spill the fresh drink. “S’idiot. He is. Massive idiot. Massive, big ol’ idiot. Prat.” He pat his pockets with his empty hand. “Where’re my smokes?” They were sitting in front of him. He pulled one out of the crumpled pack and put it between his lips. “You ever fall ‘n love witha idiot before?” He tried to light the cigarette, and missed three times before the bartender took pity and lit it for him. “Thanks. Idiot! Can’t believe… who’s he to say - ” another hiccup, “ - nonsense? He doesn’t even know. Doesn’t know. Can’t possibly know.”

The pub had closed an hour ago, but Crowley had refused to leave. His head was swimming with the alcohol he had drank in startling excess, he kept seeing the bartender morph into twins and triplets, and he wasn’t even sure if she was real anymore. _ No_, the only part of his brain that wasn’t completely drowning reminded him, _she must be real, because she just lit your cigarette._

“Idiot,” he mumbled, ashing near the ashtray and draining his drink again.

The bartender - her name was Ash, which Crowley was fairly certain he had made a joke about at some point within the last couple hours after his somethingth cigarette - hadn’t said much for the last hour while she had been cleaning up. Ash had tried to get Crowley to leave when they closed, offering to call him a taxi to get him home safe; but he had laughed and said he had nowhere to go, and didn’t want to go there anyway. So she had allowed him to stay and continue drinking, mostly for fear of what he might do if he went out on his own. (It had been the last coherent thing Crowley was able to do, miracling up a reason in Ash’s mind to let him stay. Seeing as how he couldn’t even light a cigarette now, he was glad she didn’t seem to think anything was amiss.)

“Husband?” she asked carefully when Crowley finally fell silent. “Or boyfriend?” As far as she could tell, this redheaded man in sunglasses had stomped into the pub some four hours ago, threw himself onto a stool at the bar, and began a tirade that lasted well past closing time about a man he was in love with who was, if he was to be believed, an idiot; this supposed idiot had disagreed about something nondescript - she wasn’t able to get this answer out of the drunk man; something about work? - and walked out. Or maybe the redhead had walked out. She wasn’t really clear on the details, despite having listened to the story for hours, because they seemed to keep changing.

Crowley snorted. “Neither. Jussa idiot.”

“You clearly care about him a lot,” she persisted.

“But he doesn’t, see? Doesn’t care. Nonsense. Said nonsense.”

Ash sighed, and leaned on the bar to level a steady glance at him. “Look, ...er, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Crowley,” he said.

“All right. Look, Crowley. This idiot of yours, you clearly care about him. Quite a bit. So don’t you think it would benefit you to talk to him about this?”

Crowley laughed, but was unfortunately halfway through a drag from the cigarette, and ended up coughing the smoke back up. “Talk to him?” he repeated, gasping for air. “S’stupid! What’m I s’posed to say?”

“Tell him you love him,” Ash said simply.

He slammed his glass down; it shattered, and Ash leapt back with a cry of surprise. Crowley’s glasses had slipped down his nose, and for the first time, she saw his eyes. What struck her most wasn’t the slit pupils, or even the inhuman color - it was the overwhelming pain of loss that sliced right to her core. “Weren’t you _listening_?” he spat, his anger not directed at her, but instead at everything around him. “I did! S’what started all this.”

* * *

_(one year later)_

* * *

Crowley sat down on his regular stool, already with a cigarette balancing between his lips. He was wearing a slinky dress the color of an expensive port, and his hair was in slightly frizzy waves around his shoulders. One of his sleek, black heels was scuffed, but his jewelry was all flawless gold. He made an indistinct wave, and Ash swept over a second later with a glass of his preferred whiskey. “That’s a nice dress,” she remarked, “looks good with your hair.” Then, gently, she asked, “How’re you feeling tonight?”

He rubbed his head slightly, and drained the glass in one without moving the cigarette. “High,” he said simply. “Dunno on what. Probably shouldn’t be drinking. Leave the bottle.”

She did so, but didn’t leave. “Still haven’t heard from him?”

“Am I supposed to?” he snapped.

“Do you want to?” she asked instead.

“Stupid question.” He poured himself another glass, and drained it as well. “Wanted to dance tonight,” he said instead. “Rain fucked up my hair.”

“Your make-up’s still flawless,” Ash offered in consolation.

He scoffed. “Course it is.” He poured a third glass, but just held this one for the moment. With a sigh, he motioned with his free hand, and Ash obediently produced a lighter to light his cigarette for him. “Figured I’d wait it out here,” he said, leaving a trail of smoke behind as he motioned to the front windows.

“I can fix your hair for you, before you leave, if you’d like.”

“How’s that?”

“I’m leaving for the airport after work, so I’ve got my bags here with me. Hair dryer, hair spray, brushes, all packed up. I can dig ‘em up for you, though.”

Crowley found himself smiling. “You’re sweet.”

Ash smiled lightly in return. “Happy to help.”

Two hours later, when the rain had let up, however, Ash found Crowley being chatted up by a rather drunk businessman. Crowley was playing along, all coy giggles and sidelong glances. Ash gave the two appropriate distance, and watched - a little disappointed - as Crowley took the man’s hand and tugged him through the crowds of people towards the back door. Just before they both disappeared through it, Crowley caught Ash’s eye and gave her a little wink. Ash sighed.

Ten minutes later, Crowley reentered the building, hair properly mussed up, dress sliding off of one shoulder, and wiping the corner of his mouth ungracefully. He slipped into an “employees only” back room, where Ash followed a moment later.

“You know,” she said, reaching over to pull his hair back from his face as he retched into a trashcan, “there are nicer ways of coping.”

“Ssh,” he hissed at her, spitting something that she didn’t want to see, then leaning on his arms braced on either side of the trashcan.

“More drugs?” she asked, tying his hair into a messy but effective ponytail with a spare hair tie she had retrieved from her purse fifteen minutes ago.

“Have to ask?”

“Your knees are dirty.”

“So?”

“You’re going to get hurt one of these days.”

Crowley didn’t respond immediately. In fact, he didn’t respond at all. He straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and gave Ash a look that said, quite plainly, _They can try._

* * *

_(seven years later)_

* * *

“How’s the wife?” Crowley asked.

“Pregnant!” Ash said happily. “Oh, I haven’t seen you all week, we just found out a few days ago.”

“Congrats,” he said, raising his glass in a toast, then emptied it. “And the boyfriend?”

“Leaving for France in the morning. Sophie and I are going to miss him, but we’re going to visit next month, so it won’t be so bad.” She lit his cigarette. “And you? How’s things?”

He shrugged and was quiet for a moment before saying, very softly, “Thought I saw him today.”

Ash had been halfway through rinsing some glasses, but stopped and turned back to Crowley. “Did you?” she asked carefully. He hadn’t mentioned anything about his lost love in three years.

The hand holding his cigarette was also now tangled in his hair. “Thought I did. Wasn’t him.” He reached up with his other hand and rubbed at his eyes under his glasses. Ash caught a glimpse of deep, purple bags.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Don’t be. Hasn’t even been a decade. He’s a stubborn bastard. He’s gonna make me wait.”

* * *

_(four years later)_

* * *

“You’re bleeding.” Ash passed Crowley a rag. “Another fight?”

He tugged his sleeve up and wrapped the rag around his forearm before Ash could see the wound properly. “Yeah,” he said.

“You shouldn’t drink when you’re bleeding.”

“Shouldn’t drink when I’m high either, but that never stopped me.” He took the bottle from her and took a swig directly from it.

“Bad day?” she guessed gently.

He sneered, setting the bottle down. “What gave it away?”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Do I ever?”

“Sometimes.”

Crowley sighed, leaning forward until his head hit the bottle. “I saw him today.”

“Actually him?”

“Actually him. He was… sitting on our--- on the bench. At the park. Feeding ducks.”

“Oh.”

“S’moved on, hasn’t he. Doing the things we used to do, but alone. Moved on.”

“Or he’s missing you.”

“Course he doesn’t miss me. Twelve bloody years, and not a word.”

“You haven’t talked to him either.”

He swung the bottle at her lightly, with no real threat. “Get outta here with your logic. Gimme a glass. Don’t need to pass out til I find someone willing to punch me.”

* * *

_(eight years later)_

* * *

Crowley stood outside the building, smoking, as the rain cascaded down around him. He was dressed simply, a sleek V-neck shirt and his favorite leather pants with dark snakeskin boots. There was a bruise on his neck, and bandages wrapped around his left arm. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Ash panted, hurrying up to him and lowering her umbrella as she joined him under the awning. “Sophie’s appointment ran late, and then we had to get Lily to her friend’s house.”

“S’fine,” he mumbled. “How’s Sophie?”

Ash mustered up a smile. “She’s doing all right. Better than she should be, according to the doctor, so we’re being optimistic.”

Crowley looked her up and down. The years had taken their toll on her, but he could still see the same fresh-out-of-college girl that had let him stay past closing all those years ago. She was thinner than he thought she should be, but he knew she wasn’t eating much with the stress she was under. “Good,” he said simply.

They stood in silence while Crowley continued smoking. As he was just about done, Ash cleared her throat. “How are you, then?”

He gave her a brittle smile. “You don’t want to hear about that.”

“It’s been twenty years, Crowley. If I didn’t want to hear about that, I would have kicked you out a decade ago.”

Twenty years. Twenty years since the last time he had spoken to Aziraphale. He flicked the cigarette butt into the street, and rubbed his head. “M’not good,” he admitted.

“I know.” She took him by the arm, and led him into the pub.

It was empty. It had closed for good sometime last week, and was going to be demolished tomorrow. But Ash - sentimental thing that she was - had insisted on pouring him one more drink. She sat him down in his usual, well-worn stool, and slipped behind the bar, shrugging her coat off and setting her bag and umbrella down. “I brought something special for this evening,” she said, reaching into her bag and pulling out two bottles. “For you, the same whiskey you drank that first night I met you.” She set it down in front of him, along with a glass. “And for me, the same wine you gave me and Sophie for our wedding. Took me a while to track both of these down, but I thought they’d be appropriate.”

Crowley nodded, the slightest of smiles still tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks,” he said.

She opened both bottles and poured them each a drink; they sipped in silence. Ash noted that Crowley looked more exhausted than usual. Twenty years, and he still looked exactly the same, but the exhaustion was something to see in more subtle ways. The slope of his shoulders. The bruises under his eyes. The shake in his hands. “So,” she said.

“Can’t stay away anymore,” Crowley said; apparently, that was all the prompt he needed. “S’been torture. Drugs, alcohol, sex, violence… it numbs it all for a while, but then everything just comes back. How’m I supposed to ignore something when it won’t go away?” He laughed a little. “Pain’s still here, twenty years later. Figured, if it’s still here now, it really isn’t going anywhere, is it? So fuck it, what else can I lose, right? Gonna get drunk,” he raised his glass in acknowledgement, “and gonna march right up to his stupid shop, and gonna give ‘im a piece of my mind.”

“Good.” Ash said this firmly with a single nod. She had waited damn near twenty years for Crowley to get to this point, and was glad he was finally here. “You’ll let me know how it goes?”

He snorted, and held his glass out towards her. “Babe, you’re along for the ride, aren’t you?”

She tapped her glass to his with a smile. “Glad to be here.”


	2. aziraphale

As soon as the front door had slammed, Aziraphale regretted saying it.

He hadn’t meant it. Really, he hadn’t. The words had come to his lips before he had processed them. He thought Crowley was just tipsy and being silly, but the demon’s response said otherwise. And now…

Now Aziraphale was alone in his bookshop. And the silence was deafening.

He made himself a mug of cocoa, and sat in his favorite armchair. And didn’t move for the rest of the night.

_Nonsense_. How could he have said that? It wasn’t nonsense, it was everything he had wanted to hear for centuries. And now he didn’t know if he’d ever get to hear it again.

* * *

_(one year later)_

* * *

“Not for sale, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale told the older woman patiently. “On hold for a customer, you see.”

She said something rather rude under her breath, and stomped out of the store. Aziraphale watched her go with a thin smile; the door closed sharply behind her, and then---

It was him.

There was a faint drizzle beginning to fall, and the figure had been hurrying down the sidewalk on the other side of the street, but--- but that was _him_. Aziraphale rushed to the door, throwing it open and finding himself out on the sidewalk. A flash of a red dress, a glimpse of auburn hair---

Aziraphale stood out in the rain, desperately scanning the pedestrians, but he knew it was too late.

Crowley had gone, once again.

* * *

_(seven years later)_

* * *

Aziraphale had started walking.

Not the kind of walking he did every day, but the kind of slow, leisurely stroll down the street or through the park that one does when they have some things to think through. Eight years, and still his thoughts were consistently tumultuous. The bookshop’s hours had become more erratic than ever as he closed at random hours to walk, and even opening later and later in the day as he took to sleeping.

This part, he didn’t really know why he did. Sleep was something he had never really been fond of. Even now, he didn’t particularly enjoy it, but it passed the time. And meant that - for a few hours - he didn’t have to feel alone.

The sky was overcast this afternoon as he walked the streets of Soho. He knew the shops and the people very well, but he didn’t stop at any of them, didn’t speak to anyone. He simply walked, and let his mind do whatever it needed to do to make him feel less miserable. This rarely worked, but it was the effort that counted sometimes.

He slowed as he passed a nursery, potted plants displayed in the windows and spilling out onto the sidewalk. A lovely pot of lilies caught his attention, and he actually stopped to admire them.

_Crowley had just gotten some lilies._

The thought was pervasive and insistent, and Aziraphale closed his eyes briefly to try to push it back. And then…

There was a slight prickle at the back of his neck, as if there was a very intent set of eyes on him. He blinked his own eyes open, and turned around. There was the flash of a sleek, black car hurtling around the corner away from him.

_ Oh. _

Before he knew what he was doing, Aziraphale’s feet were carrying him down the street, around the corner, chasing the unidentified vehicle.

But it wasn’t a Bentley. The. It wasn’t _the_ Bentley.

Aziraphale had never before realized just how tangible disappointment could be.

* * *

_(four years later)_

* * *

Weren’t these things supposed to get easier over time? Weren’t wounds supposed to _heal_? Of course, wounds can only heal if one isn’t constantly reopening them. Which is exactly what Aziraphale was doing.

It had taken over a decade, but he started going back to the Ritz. Alone. It didn’t feel right, but if he closed his eyes while nibbling his cake or sipping his wine, he could almost imagine that he could feel Crowley’s familiar gaze on him. He started going back to St James Park, sitting on the familiar bench that he had sat on so many times before. And he’d toss bread or seeds out to the ducks, and could swear he could hear that familiar voice wondering if ducks have ears.

_Must have_, he’d answer internally. _How else would they hear other ducks?_

Of course, that was assuming that the other ducks wanted to hear them. If one duck didn’t want to listen to another duck, then it wouldn’t matter how many ears they had. Wouldn’t matter if it was a duck made of ears, if the other duck didn’t want to listen.

The other duck was also probably several hundred miles away. Ears can only do so much.

* * *

_(eight years later)_

* * *

Sometimes, Aziraphale entertained the idea of going to find Crowley. Sometimes. But since he had no idea what he would say, he never really got further than the front door. After all, how does one come back from responding to a declaration of love by calling it nonsense?

Twenty years, and the words were still haunting him. How could he have said that? _What was he thinking?_

No, it had been long enough. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he had to say something. _Hello_ would be a good place to start, he thought. _Long time, no see_, if he was feeling cheeky. Maybe he’d let Crowley punch him, just to get the ball rolling. It would only be fair, wouldn’t it?

Whatever was going to happen, it wasn’t going to happen until he found Crowley. He’d start at his flat, maybe he’d get lucky. If not, he’d look into the bars that Crowley used to frequent. Then all the other bars. Then gardening stores and nurseries. He would search the entirety of London, then England, then the world if he had to. But he was going to find Crowley, and he was going to make this right.

It had been long enough.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and marched to the front door. Long enough. He was going to fix this. Twenty years was long enough. He opened the front door.

“Oh!” Two voices overlapped.

Because Crowley was standing right there, hand raised, clearly about to knock on the door that was no longer in his way.

They stared at each other.

“Hello,” Aziraphale said, at the same time that Crowley said, “Hi.”

They stared at each other some more.

“Um,” and, “uh.”

“Come in,” Aziraphale said simply.

Crowley finally dropped his hand. “Thanks.”

Aziraphale moved aside, and Crowley walked in. There was nothing familiar about his walk, no haughty saunter, no graceful sway of hips. Just the sloping slink of someone who was suddenly very uncomfortable in their own body. Aziraphale closed the door behind him very quietly, and turned to face Crowley.

A beat. Then, “I’m sorry.” Two voices, once again.

Crowley shook his head and held a hand up to stop Aziraphale from saying anything else. “No. No, just listen,” he said firmly. “I came all this way, and you’re going to listen.” Aziraphale nodded, so Crowley continued. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “When I said… when I said what I did, I wasn’t thinking. It was stupid. I shouldn’t have said it, so. I’m sorry.

“But,” he added after taking a careful breath, “you also shouldn’t’ve called it nonsense.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said quickly before the demon could continue. “I know, I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry. It was foolish of me, but I--- no, no, I told myself I wouldn’t make excuses. I shouldn’t have called it nonsense, and I’m sorry. Full stop.”

“Oh.” Crowley swallowed heavily. “Oh. Yeah, I uh. Yeah.” He hadn’t been expecting that, and had no prepared response.

Aziraphale took a careful, hesitant step closer, wringing his hands in front of him. “Crowley,” he said, and his tongue wrapped around the name as if it was caressing a long lost love. “I realized that the reason I reacted the way I did was because I was scared. I was scared to think that… that you… that is to say, that someone like you--- not a demon, I mean, someone like--- someone so… er, someone…” He was floundering, and he knew it, but he didn’t know how to stop. “Wonderful,” he got out finally. “You are, you really are wonderful, and I was scared of what that meant, you… you l-loving me.” The word fell from his lips as if it was an unfamiliar word in a long-dead language. He took a deep breath; Crowley hadn’t moved, frozen to the spot. “I panicked. I’m not trying to make excuses, I just want you to understand. I panicked, because I--- because I love you, too.”

When a full minute passed and Crowley still hadn’t moved a single muscle, Aziraphale took another step forward. “Crowley?”

“What did you just say?” The demon’s voice came from somewhere in his chest, where it had apparently been knocked around a few times; it came out bruised and bloodied, stumbling from a dark alley into daylight.

Aziraphale let the smallest of smiles twitch at his lips. “I love you, Crowley. And I’m ashamed that it took twenty years of silence for me to tell you that.”

Slowly, one shaking hand rose from Crowley’s side. “Say that again,” he demanded.

Reaching out to take his hand, Aziraphale obediently said, “I love you.”

Crowley collapsed. He hadn’t meant to, but in order for his heart and mind to process everything, his legs had to surrender their use.

Aziraphale fell to his knees next to him. The sunglasses had dropped and skidded across the floor, and the angel was a little startled to see - not tears, he had been expecting the tears - deep bruising around his eyes, well-travelled tear tracks, and _pain_ in the honey-gold eyes he had missed so very much. Aziraphale reached up and held Crowley’s face in his hands. Crowley sobbed, and his body - used, abused, damaged and left to suffer - shuddered with the effort. “I missed you,” Aziraphale whispered. “I should have come for you sooner.” He pulled Crowley forward and held him to his chest. “I’ve been a proper idiot, my dear, I really have. Look at what you’ve done to yourself. I take full responsibility, and I will spend however long it takes to get you back to tip-top condition. I owe you that much.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley gasped, trying to take deep breaths, but ending up nearly hyperventilating. “I-I came here to-to yell at you. I was angry, b-but seeing you--- seeing you again changed that. I-I was just--- and here you are, a-and you said--- Aziraphale, I love you,” he ended with a whisper. “I love you. Every day without you was, was terrible.”

“I know, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured against his hair, combing his fingers through it. “It was for me, too. I’m so very sorry I didn’t come for you sooner.”

“No!” Crowley scrambled to sit up, to look the angel in the eye. “No, my fault, too. Should have come for _you_.”

A soft smile lit Aziraphale’s features. “But you did. And here you are.”

“Here you are,” Crowley echoed.

* * *

* * *

_ so how’d it go? _

_ everything ok? _

_ crowley, it’s been three days _

_ you’ve got me worried now _

_it’s all good _👍

_ no need to worry _

_ good, but _

_ you gonna tell me what happened? _

_ and why i didn’t hear from you for three days??_

_ had to make up for lost time _

😏😉

_ i told you that you worried for nothing _

_ 20 years _

_ christ _ 🙄

_ ofc he missed you _

_ do i get to meet him, then? _👀

_ he wants to meet you _

_ to thank you for being there for me _

_ A Z Fell & Co in Soho, tmrw around lunchtime _

_ bring sophie _

_ and lily and anthony, i miss the brats _

_ sophie’s got appts all day tmrw _

_ maybe next week sometime? _

_ ash, just trust me _

_ skip her appts and come with us to lunch _

_ you won’t regret it _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see? i promised a happy ending, and i deliver.
> 
> comments <strike>and your tears</strike> fuel me <3!
> 
> [join me on tumblr](http://effable-ineffability.tumblr.com/)! send me prompts, or just shout at me about these dorks or anything really


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